Columbia
by Sabraia
Summary: Sequel to 'The Blood of Freedom'. America and England have returned to their world, their terrible journey finally over. But, in the world they left, nothing is over. The British have claimed their victory, but when Canada assumes his new role as the personification of all of British North America, he discovers that the fires of rebellion were never fully quenched...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note and Disclaimer: This is the sequel to a fic I just recently finished, 'The Blood of Freedom'. Make sure you've read that one FIRST, as this story will contain lots of references to that one (and very spoileriffic references at that), so some parts may be confusing.**

**Another thing to keep in mind is that I've got a full schedule this semester, and I'm drafting ideas for a fourth story (unrelated to anything else I've published so far). Said fourth story may or not be published concurrently with this one, so expect updates to be a little sporadic.**

**And, lastly, as I'm certain you are already aware: I do not own Hetalia.**

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><p>Late November, 1780.<p>

Two months after British troops had put an end to the American rebellion.

Inside the study of a mansion in the Virginian countryside, the personification of the British colonies of North America sat at a desk, with dozens of pages of notes scattered all over the desk's surface. Underneath all those notes was a spellbook, and, though the book sat open, the page it was opened to could barely be seen under all the other papers.

The colony that sat at the desk picked up each page of notes in turn, carefully studying them, and occasionally muttering things to himself. This was an exercise which he'd been carrying out since earlier that morning. He spent hours going over notes which he had taken days to compile, and he deliberately went slowly, so as not to miss any crucial details. Finally, when he was satisfied, he stuffed the notes inside the spellbook, and carried the spellbook with him into the cellar.

Setting the spellbook aside, Canada – or, British North America – spent the next several minutes lighting candles and placing them around the center of the floor in order to see what he was doing. Then, referring to the spellbook and all his notes, Canada drew an incantation circle on the cellar floor. When he finished, he stood in the center of the circle, holding the spellbook in one hand, and reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve a knife with the other.

Canada made a small cut on his arm, allowing the blood to drip onto the floor. He then put the knife back, and began to chant the incantation for the spell he had prepared.

He was so certain he had done everything right. All of the sigils had been drawn exactly as they had been shown in the book, and he'd practiced the incantation before, hoping his inflection and pronunciation were correct.

Canada's heart raced when he saw the circle begin to glow, just like the book had said.

_It's working!_ He thought.

He continued chanting, and his hopes soared even higher when he saw a transparent image begin forming inside the circle, that looked like the time and place that the magic was supposed to take him to. Turning a few pages in the spellbook, Canada began chanting the next spell in the complicated weave of magic he would need in order to pull this off.

Little did he know that he had already botched the first one. He had _not_ found the time and place he was looking for.

Canada finished casting his next spell, the image around him came into sharper focus. Only now did he realize there was a mistake.

"This… isn't West Point," he said.

Fighting back a sense of panic, he turned more pages, hoping he could correct his mistake. He spent a minute frantically searching his notes as well. Thinking he had found a solution, Canada tried another spell. He began chanting.

In his brief moment of panic, his pronunciation faltered, and the image vanished without warning.

_No! It's not supposed to do that! What did I just do?!_

Canada went back to the original spell, trying to bring the image back. He tried to force himself to remain calm, but was only having marginal success.

His mistakes kept mounting. He fumbled another phrase, and another image began to form, but it was not the image from before, nor was it the one Canada was looking for. This one was extremely bizarre, with things Canada had never seen before.

On either side of him were building walls, but even just the walls looked strange, like these were types of buildings Canada had never seen. The ground looked like black rock, and there were papers and cylindrical objects made out of brightly colored metal littering the ground. There were giant sacks made out of some strange black material next to the walls. When Canada looked ahead, at what little was visible of the street outside, he saw what he could only have described as weird carriages, made out of metal. None of them had horses pulling them, yet they raced past each other, as if driven by some invisible force.

Panic was surging through Canada's mind at the moment. He desperately tried again to fix his mistake. He began chanting yet again.

The image from earlier appeared, but this second image did not disappear yet. The armies that clashed in the first image ran right through the walls of the second image, and neither image appeared to be affected by the other.

_How do I make this stop?!_

Canada slammed the book shut and stepped out of the circle. Both images vanished.

Confused, angry and frustrated, Canada threw the book aside, and dropped to his knees. For several minutes, he stared blankly at the incantation circle, then gave up. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

_I can't do it, Alfred,_ he thought.

**(-)**

July, 1783. Nearly two years later…

Canada sat alone in the study of America's Virginia home once again, this time poring over a letter that he had written. Also scattered on the desk were letters he had recently received, and most of these sat on top of the spellbook. Two years later, and Canada had still managed to keep it hidden from England.

Just days after Canada's failed attempt at the time travel spell, England had showed up unannounced, and demanded the spellbook be given back.

For the first time in his life, Canada blatantly disobeyed his superior. Not only did he not give it back, but he denied having stolen it. England had smacked his colony hard across the cheek, with a warning that disobedience would be severely punished, and proceeded to search the mansion.

He never found it.

After failing at casting the spell, Canada had gone to great lengths to hide his attempt, in anticipation of the very thing England was now doing. Canada erased the circle, and hid the book in a hidden compartment in the cellar, which he remembered America had shown to him when Canada had come to visit at the end of the Seven Years' War. America had assured his brother that England had no idea that compartment was there.

Incensed that he couldn't find it, England tried interrogating Canada, demanding he tell him where it was hidden. Again, Canada insisted he hadn't stolen it; had never seen or touched it.

England was left with little choice but to leave and search elsewhere. But, as he left, he promised Canada that he would find it, and he warned a second time that disobedience would be punished.

But there had been tears in his eyes when he said it.

Now, two years later, England had probably calmed down, and Canada was wondering if he shouldn't just leave the spellbook somewhere that England could conveniently stumble upon it. The spellbook was useless to Canada now. Canada had already proven to himself that he didn't have enough command of magic to do what he had stolen it for – to travel back in time, to prevent America's death.

It had been two years. There was no bringing America back. It was time to move on.

Canada stood up, folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. He sealed it and pocketed it, then turned around, headed for the door. He left the mansion, and went to the gate, where there was a courier waiting for him.

"Deliver this letter to Samuel Adams, in Boston," Canada said, handing the letter over. "He'll be using the pseudonym 'Samson Travis'. Godspeed."

The courier left, and Canada went back inside. He returned to the study and picked all the letters off the desk. He nearly dropped the letters in his shock.

The spellbook was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: While this fic is set in an alternate history, relevant references to actual history will be explained in notes at the _end_ of each chapter. **

**Enjoy.**

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><p>Canada frantically searched the study, trying to find the spellbook. When he didn't find it, he ran back outside, hoping to catch the thief in his attempt to escape, but there was no one around for as far as Canada could see. He checked the rest of the mansion, wondering if the thief was perhaps still inside.<p>

Again, no one.

_There's no way he could have escaped already; I would have seen him at _some _point,_ Canada thought.

He double checked in the study, but got the same result as before. The spellbook was gone. Vanished.

_Did England find out I had it after all? _Canada wondered. _He was the only one that could have known I had it, and he's the only one who could have wanted it…_

Canada stared wide-eyed at the desk, and the letters scattered on it.

_If he found out I had the spellbook, what else does he know?_ Canada thought. _Does he know that I found surviving fugitives from the Revolution as well?_

Canada picked up a handful of the letters, thinking. All of the letters' hidden messages were very carefully coded, but could still be deciphered by someone with sufficient skill in spy work.

Someone like England.

Canada hurriedly sorted through all the letters, checking to make sure none had been stolen or tampered with. To his surprise, none of the letters were missing, and there was no evidence of tampering. No one had touched them.

"Thank God," Canada breathed, setting the letters back on the desk.

However, the fact still remained that someone had managed to sneak into the house, steal the spellbook, and leave undetected. It ultimately didn't matter who the culprit was; this place was no longer safe. Canada needed to leave, and take all those letters with him, before someone else broke into the mansion and stole them.

Canada ran through the house, packing only items that he would need, and stuffing all the letters into a pouch. When he had everything he needed, he went outside, mounted his horse, and fled.

He rode for days on end, only stopping at night to rest in nearby towns or homes on his journey. For the first several days, the ride went smoothly. However, eventually, Canada's route required him to make a stop in New York.

As he made his way through the city, Canada noticed British regulars on patrol almost everywhere he looked. It had been two – almost three years since the end of the war, but England still insisted on keeping troops stationed all over the place. It was supposed to be a precautionary measure, to prevent rebellion from breaking out again.

Canada tightened his grip on the reins. He deliberately avoided eye contact with the soldiers, and continued on his way. He didn't want to stay in New York any longer than necessary. One night in an inn, and then he would be gone by the next morning.

That night, after finding a room, Canada found it unusually difficult to fall asleep. When he collapsed onto the bed, physically exhausted from the day's ride, he ended up staring at the ceiling for hours on end. More than once, he would unconsciously grab the sheets and curl his hands into fists, then realize what he was doing five minutes later and unclench his hands.

Cursing under his breath, Canada gave up and got out of bed. He paced the room for a while, trying to clear his mind. When he lay back down, he took several deep breaths, hoping to relax enough to finally get some sleep.

He didn't get nearly the amount of sleep he had hoped for. After a very short night's rest, Canada got up early the following morning, and prepared to leave New York.

Someone flagged him down just as he was leaving the inn.

"What? Who is this…?" Canada muttered to himself as he came to a halt, watching the figure approach.

"Alfred? Mr. Jones, is that you?"

Canada winced. This wasn't the first time someone had mistaken him for America. And, given the circumstances, Canada knew he couldn't blame them, but the reminder was still painful. He wasn't America; he was his replacement.

The figure came closer, and Canada noticed that it was a young man – probably in his late twenties – but try as he might, he couldn't recognize this individual from anywhere.

_He sounds like he knew Alfred personally though, _Canada thought. _He must be another survivor!_

The man came to a halt just a few feet away, looking at Canada expectantly. After a few seconds, his bright countenance darkened a bit, and he looked a little confused.

"You've changed," he said. "Your hair is longer, and your eyes look… lighter."

Canada shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "But I'm not Alfred."

The young man's face fell, and he stepped backward.

"My apologies, sir," he said. "But you looked very much like a man I know; I thought you were him."

"I'm his brother, Matthew," Canada said quickly, seeing the man was about to leave.

The man stopped.

"Matthew?" he repeated, his eyebrows going up slightly. He looked off in the distance for a moment, as if trying to recall something, but quickly refocused his attention on Canada.

"You are here to visit, then?" he asked.

"I am not visiting," Canada said. "I live here."

The other man frowned. "Strange," he muttered. "Alfred said you lived in Canada…"

Canada shook his head. "I used to," he explained. Waving his hand as if to dismiss the topic, he then changed the subject.

"May I ask what your name is, sir? You sound like were a friend of my brother."

"Alexander Hamilton. Alfred and I served under General Washington."

_That name doesn't sound familiar, _Canada thought. _He must have been a lower ranking officer, if the British didn't bother to hang him after the war ended._

Hamilton cast a surreptitious glance at his surroundings, then added, with a lowered voice, "Forgive my impertinence, but I must ask: where is your brother? I… haven't seen him since the Battle of West Point. If you could take me to him, I would like to speak with him."

Canada inwardly winced again. _He was there, and he didn't see what happened?_ he thought. _Samuel Adams didn't know, but he wasn't there, so… _

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hamilton," Canada said. "But, Alfred was killed in the Battle of West Point."

"Oh…" Hamilton lowered his gaze. When he looked back up, he gave Canada an apologetic look, then added, "I fought in that battle, but I didn't see… what happened to him. I had no idea…"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

_I wonder if he knew what Alfred was… _Canada thought. _And, by extension, what I am. If he doesn't know yet, he probably will…_

"I… had to move here after I received word of his death," Canada said. He looked down, thinking of how to word his next sentence.

_America did say, early on in his Revolution, that he wasn't England's brother anymore. So, I suppose…_

"I'm his only next of kin. When he died, I inherited his estate…" Canada continued.

Hamilton looked slightly confused. "So, you moved here to take care of it? What of your home in Canada?"

"I may return there, when I find the time," Canada replied. "But, for now, my priority is here."

Hamilton nodded his understanding, and turned to go again.

"Before you leave," Canada said abruptly, causing Hamilton to halt in his tracks yet again. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and continued, "Do you know of any… other men from the war, who knew Alfred?"

Hamilton's eyebrows went up slightly. "Men that escaped prison and execution, you mean," he whispered in response. He looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Just one," Hamilton said. "But he's in Spain."

Canada frowned. _Who did America send to Spain?_

"When will he return?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Canada looked away for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. There was nothing he could think of at the moment. Whoever this man was that had been sent to Spain, he was probably in similar straits with Adams and Franklin, which meant he was not likely to ever leave the country. There was little good that could be done if that was the case.

"Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I hope to see you again."

Hamilton nodded, and he and Canada went their separate ways.

**(-)**

Canada left New York and crossed the Hudson River, going at a much slower pace than he had taken over the past few days. This path was not part of his original route, but it was nearby, and Canada had decided, shortly after his meeting with Hamilton that he wanted to investigate something.

Canada rode on the road on the west side of the Hudson, and traveled north. As he rode north, he heard the sounds of a British patrol somewhere ahead of him. He pulled his horse to a sudden stop.

Fort West Point was just a few miles to the north. These were probably soldiers that had been stationed there, and were just patrolling the area.

_I can understand why England keeps soldiers in the towns,_ Canada thought with disgust. _But why does he insist on keeping soldiers in the forts too? The war's over; that's no longer necessary…_

Canada steered his horse off the road, and continued riding through the nearby forest, finding a spot to hide, but where he could still see the road. When the patrol came into view, Canada stopped his horse again, holding as still as possible so as not to make any sound. He waited in tense silence while the patrol passed him, completely oblivious to his presence. After they disappeared from view, Canada waited a bit longer, listening carefully if they decided to double back, then resumed his northward journey.

As he neared West Point, Canada knew he would have to stay off the road completely. He would probably have to dismount as well. For now, Canada kept riding, until he reached a small clearing. There he dismounted, and tied the reins to a tree.

He was about to leave when he noticed something odd on the other side of the clearing. It didn't look like part of the underbrush.

"What is that?" he mused aloud.

Canada walked over to it, and noticed that it was actually a cross, made out of two pieces of wood.

_A grave marker? In the middle of the forest, half a mile from West Point?_

Canada had a terrible feeling he knew whose grave this was. There was something written on the horizontal piece, and Canada knelt down to get a closer look, trying to read it.

"Alfred F. Jones," he read aloud.

He was right.

_It looks like England had the decency to give him a proper burial, at least,_ Canada thought. _But he never told me…_

It was quiet in the clearing for over a minute. During that time, Canada just sat there, staring blankly at the grave.

"It takes three years, and I end up finding your grave by accident," Canada said, shaking his head. "England never said a word, so I thought you'd just ended up with the rest of the casualties…"

Canada stood up, still shaking his head.

_Why am I doing this to myself? I should've known that something like this might've happened when I decided to come here…_

Canada went back to where his horse was tied and untied the reins. He'd been here long enough.

However, at that moment, just as Canada had mounted his horse and was about to leave, he felt a sudden surge of anger and adrenaline rush through him. He felt pain as well, but it was numbed by the adrenaline.

"What is happening…?"

Canada turned his attention inward, trying to pinpoint what had happened, and where. In Quebec, where he had a population of potentially rebellious French colonists, there was nothing. In nearby New York, one of the areas hardest hit by the failed Revolution, and was likely to have occasional sparks of rebellion, nothing. In the southern colonies, all was quiet. Canada looked further north, to the rest of his brother's colonies.

He found it.

Boston. There was a riot.

Of course, the British redcoats that England had left there were undoubtedly already on the scene – if they hadn't provoked the fighting to start with – and were trying to restore order. Canada wasn't there, and thus couldn't actually see what was happening, but he knew this was going to end in bloodshed.

Cursing under his breath, Canada dug his heels into his horse's side, and rode out of the clearing, but not without one last glance at America's grave.

_Your rebellion started in Boston… Is this what your 'Boston Massacre' felt like, Alfred?_

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><p><strong>Ending notes: During the American Revolution, Alexander Hamilton was an officer serving under Washington's command. My personal headcanon is that, while he wasn't of high enough rank to be informed about the nations, he probably figured it out himself and never said anything.<strong>

**The guy Hamilton says is still in Spain is John Jay. In actual history, he negotiated and signed the Treaty of Paris (along with several others, including Ben Franklin). Before that, he was an ambassador to Spain (and talked the Spanish into giving the Americans money to fund the war).**

**The Boston Massacre... was not really a massacre. It was a fight, started by colonists, who were throwing snowballs at British soldiers, who responded by opening fire, killing five men.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I'm sorry this is so late, but there's always one thing or another getting in the way. **

**Well, anyway, here you go. Hopefully I'll have the next one up quicker.**

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><p>Canada did not reach Boston for several days after leaving New York. By the time he got there, things had calmed down, but only slightly. There were no angry crowds harassing the British soldiers, at least.<p>

Tension was still high, and Canada could feel it. He didn't even need his personification status to be able to tell, it was so obvious. People were avoiding the soldiers, and Canada could hear the occasional disparaging remark whispered as he walked around.

Studiously ignoring the colonists and soldiers around him, Canada kept going, heading to a specific house in the city. There was someone there he needed to see.

A little while later, Canada reached the house without incident. He knocked on the door. Seconds later, a middle-aged man answered, and he recognized Canada immediately, quickly ushering him inside.

"Matthew!" he said as he was closing the door behind Canada. "I did not expect to see you here; has something happened?"

"Apart from a few days ago, you mean…" Canada said. "Yes, I'm afraid something has happened…"

He took his coat off and led the man into the next room. There was a pair of chairs next to a table on one side of the room, and a fireplace on the opposite wall. Canada took a seat in the nearest chair, while Adams sat down in the other chair.

"I must apologize; I've been careless, and that carelessness almost got you discovered, Mr. Adams," he continued. "Someone broke into Alfred's Virginia home, where I've been keeping your letters."

Adams' eyebrows shot up.

"They've been stolen?" he asked.

Canada shook his head. "Thankfully, no," he said. "I found no evidence of tampering either. But, to be safe, I took them with me and left."

"Destroy them," Adams said flatly. "You don't want to risk those letters being found."

Canada blinked.

"Uh – yes, I'll do that," he said awkwardly. "But, speaking of letters… has the courier delivered my latest letter?"

Adams reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

"Just yesterday," he said. "I was about to write my reply when you knocked on my door."

Canada waved his hand dismissively.

"That won't be necessary anymore," he said.

Silence fell on the room for a minute. Canada stared at the floor, while Adams patiently waited for him to continue.

"Mr. Williams?" Adams said quietly.

"Do you know a man named Alexander Hamilton?" Canada asked finally, returning his attention to Mr. Adams.

Adams furrowed his brow, searching his memory.

"The name is familiar, yes," Adams replied. "But I'm afraid I don't know the man very well. I only met him while I was a delegate in the Continental Congress, years ago. Why?"

Canada shrugged. "I was just wondering," he said. "I ran into him the other day. He apparently knew Alfred personally, so I thought… "

He trailed off and looked away. "Never mind… I don't know…"

"You've found another one of Alfred's friends," Adams said.

Canada said nothing, and, for almost a minute, it was quiet. During this lull in the conversation, Adams stood up and went over to the fireplace, and began to kindle a fire.

"What are you doing?" Canada asked.

Once he had managed to get the fire going, Adams walked over to his chair. Instead of sitting down, however, he looked pointedly at Canada while gesturing at the fire.

"Destroy the letters," Adams said.

Canada reached into his pouch and withdrew the letters. He walked over to the fireplace and tossed them all into the fire, then just stood there, watching the papers burn. Only when the fire had totally consumed the letters did Canada finally return to his seat.

"We will continue our correspondence," Canada said distractedly, still looking at the fire.

Adams nodded. "Yes. However, I would advise committing the information in my letters to memory, and then destroying the letter," he said.

Canada nodded his understanding, then abruptly changed the subject.

"What happened here, a few days ago?" he asked.

Adams frowned, confused.

"I thought you knew; you mentioned it as you came in," he said.

Canada shook his head. "I knew there was a riot, but I didn't see how it started, or what happened," he clarified. "Did you see it?"

"No. But I heard about it from others…"

"…And?"

Adams threw his arms up as if in frustration.

"Nobody can agree on what happened. Some say the British soldiers started the fighting, others say someone threw something at the soldiers, and they retaliated…"

Canada let out a heavy sigh and lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Never mind then…" he said quietly.

He stared contemplatively at the floor for a minute, but eventually lifted his gaze again, and focused his attention on Adams.

"Do you know how your cousin John is doing?" he asked.

Adams shook his head. "I sent a letter months ago, but have received no reply as of yet," he said. "It's possible that he has written back, but you know how long it takes for those ships to get across the Atlantic…"

Canada nodded slowly. "In that case, I will wait," he said. "Thank you, Samuel."

With that, he abruptly stood up and put his coat back on. As he was about to make his way to the door, Adams stood up as well, and signaled Canada to stop. Canada halted, facing Adams with a questioning look.

"When should I expect to hear from you again?" Adams asked.

"I don't know," Canada replied. "I will probably show up unannounced, again."

"Very well," Adams said. "Farewell, Mr. Williams. And be careful."

Canada nodded his understanding, then headed for the door. He left the house, and went to where he had left his horse.

_That was pointless,_ he thought as he mounted the horse and took off. _There's no one else in Boston that I know of that Alfred knew, so there's no point in staying here either…_

As he rode out of Boston, Canada mentally ran through the very short list of America's revolutionaries that he knew had escaped the noose after the end of the war. Surely there was someone he could talk to…

Unfortunately, the only people that came to mind were out of reach.

_John Adams and Ben Franklin are in Papa's country, and Hamilton mentioned someone was in Spain's country,_ Canada thought. _I don't know what role Hamilton played in the war, other than that he was in the Continental Army. I wonder if it'll be worth the effort to try to establish communications with him like I have with Samuel Adams._

Of course, in order to find out, Canada would have to go right back to New York.

_I should have stayed down there, rather than come up here to investigate that riot,_ Canada scolded himself. _I should have expected it; it was probably bound to happen at some point. Besides, it's not like I can expect anything to come of it… England left those soldiers there for that specific reason. To crush any attempts at rebellion. Again._

Canada pulled his horse to a halt.

"Damn it…"

He dismounted, even though he hadn't even left the city yet, and he spent several minutes just standing there, glaring at the ground, wondering what to do. Several passersby were giving him strange looks, but he didn't care.

_I can't do anything, really. Not until I see John Adams' reply to Samuel's letter._

Canada got back on his horse, then turned around, having decided not to leave Boston just yet. He rode through the city, eventually stopping at a mansion in one of the richer districts.

_This was America's home in the Massachusetts colony,_ Canada thought. _I guess it's mine now… may as well stay here for the night, then._

Surprisingly, it had been untouched by the British during their raids of the city in the last months of 1780. It had been left empty for at least three years now, and was still in good condition. Apparently, not even thieves or vandals had bothered to touch it either. The almost pristine condition of the house made Canada wonder if there were squatters living there.

He dismounted and tied the horse to the fence, then went to the door. When he tried it, it turned out to be locked, so Canada briefly cast about for something he could use to pick the lock. Unable to find anything, he forced the door open with his bare hands, then let himself inside.

Everything was covered in several years' worth of dust. There really hadn't been anyone in here.

Canada walked around, exploring the house and familiarizing himself with the layout. Most of the rooms were in varying levels of disarray, though the study and the master bedroom were the worst. The bed had not been made, and the wardrobe doors stood wide open, with the clothes either strewn on the floor or hung in seemingly random arrangement within the wardrobe. In the study, there were books and loose papers scattered all over the desk, but a few books and papers had apparently been dropped onto the floor. From the look of things, when America had last been here, he had left in a hurry.

After a while, when he had explored the entire house, Canada went into the master bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When Canada awoke, it was pitch black in the room. He looked out the window, and noticed it was night outside. Waiting until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Canada eventually got out of bed and fumbled around, looking for a candle to light. There was one candle on the armoire beside the bed, but it took Canada a minute of wandering around the room to find something with which to light the candle.

With the lit candle in hand, Canada slowly navigated his way through the house. He went into the parlor and set the candle down on the table, then sat on one of the chairs next to the table, resting his chin on one hand.

The clock on the wall was showing a few minutes before eleven, but after staring at it for several minutes, Canada realized the clock was not working. It had probably stopped working quite some time ago.

Boredom eventually drove Canada to get up and start wandering the house again. He went to the study, picked up the fallen books and papers from the floor, and began to put everything back as neatly as possible. First, he put all the books back on the shelves on the wall, but when he got to the loose papers, Canada found something odd.

Several of these 'papers' were actually letters, and every single one of them was still sealed. When Canada looked closely, he immediately recognized the seal on the letters.

These had been sent by England himself. But America had never bothered to read any of them.

_These are probably years old,_ Canada thought. _There's no point in keeping them now._

However, out of morbid curiosity, Canada picked up one of the letters and opened it anyway. As Canada suspected, the letter was quite old; 1773, in fact. He skimmed through the letter.

These letters – or, at least, this one – had been part of England's attempts to curtail unrest in the colonies before the war had broken out. Apparently England had tried asking America directly to control his citizens, though Canada was struck by some of the language used; he noticed England kept using words like 'traitors' and 'treason' to refer to the colonists and their activities.

"But this is from before the war even started…" Canada muttered.

Canada picked up the other letters, and was tempted to read them as well, but thought better of it. For over a minute, he merely stood there, staring blankly at the wall, thinking.

After a minute's deliberation, Canada returned to the parlor with the letters in hand. He set the letters on the table, then checked the fireplace. It was empty. Canada went back to the table and picked up the letters.

_If America never bothered to read these, why did he keep them?_

Canada looked back and forth between the letters in his left hand, and the candle in his right.

_I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, now that America's gone… there's no point in holding onto these for him._

He tossed all but one of the letters into the empty fireplace. Only the letter he had opened remained in his hand. He held it over the candle's flame until the paper caught fire. Canada watched it burn for a few seconds, then knelt down and set the burning letter on top of the other letters. The other letters slowly and gradually caught fire as well.

Canada watched the fire consume the letters, and when the fire eventually ran out of fuel, and ultimately went out, he returned to the bedroom. He blew the candle out and got into bed, and spent the rest of the night trying to get to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

February, 1784. Six months later…

As soon as the ship was docked, England disembarked as quickly as he could, setting foot on the docks of Boston Harbor. He briefly scanned his surroundings; dozens of colonists were going to and fro about their business, though they were careful to avoid contact with the redcoats patrolling the area. Both colonists and soldiers were oblivious to England's presence, but, since he was dressed as a civilian, that was to be expected.

England sighed heavily and left the dock, heading into town. He hated Boston. He did not want to be here, but there were things that needed to be dealt with, and dealt with _now,_ before they got… worse.

Unrest and fights, starting in the Massachusetts colony – and the city of Boston in particular – had sparked the last war. And the news England had received a few months ago of rioting in Boston was giving him a sickening sense of déjà vu.

_Please, Canada… don't do what your brother did… _England thought.

After several minutes, England reached the front gate of America's house in Boston. The gate was unlocked, so England let himself onto the premises. He went up to the front door and knocked. Less than a minute later, the door opened, and there stood Canada.

"England?" Canada asked, the surprise obvious in his tone.

"Matthew," England responded. "Sorry about the surprise visit, but there are some things we need to discuss."

"Of course…"

Canada lowered his gaze, stepped backward and gestured for England to come inside. He shot a glare at England behind the British nation's back as he closed the door.

_What are you doing here?_ Canada wondered.

England seated himself on one of the chairs in the parlor. Canada followed him into the parlor, but did not sit down right away. First, he checked on the fire in the fireplace, making sure it wasn't about to go out. Then, he straightened himself, and returned his attention to England.

"Tea, sir?" Canada asked.

"Yes."

Canada quickly left the parlor, heading for the kitchen, where he began to prepare the tea. He returned to the parlor a few minutes later with the tea, and offered a cup to England. When England had taken his tea, Canada sat down in the chair opposite him, but did not pour any tea for himself.

It was uncomfortably quiet in the room while England sipped his tea. Eventually, he set his cup down and looked directly at Canada, and got right to the point.

"A few months ago, I received word of a riot here in Boston," England said. "Apparently, some of your colonists assaulted my men, and there was a rather large fight."

Canada said nothing, even though after a few seconds, it became apparent that England was expecting a reply.

"Well?" England said. "What do you know of what happened?"

Canada gave a slight shrug.

"I was in New York at the time," he replied. "I didn't see what happened. All I know is what the people have been telling me. And some of them… say the soldiers provoked the fight…"

"Indeed."

Canada inwardly winced at England's harsh tone.

_Is this the same tone you used with America before the war broke out?_ Canada thought. _And you called his colonists 'traitors' in your letters as well? _

"Regardless of how it started," England said. "It needs to stop. I don't want to hear of any more riots."

Canada's eyes went wide. _And how do you expect me to do that?_

"Sir, I can hardly assume direct control of the people…" he said quietly.

"I know," England said curtly. "You don't need to. All you have to do is quell the rebel-rousers that would spark another rebellion."

_I thought that was what your soldiers were for…_

"…Yes, sir," Canada said, after a brief hesitation.

England took another sip of tea. When he set the cup down, he let out a small sigh, and stared intently at the tabletop for a moment.

"Good," he said at last. He stood up.

Canada frowned. "Is that… all you wanted to discuss?"

"That is all for the time being, yes," England replied. "There are some trade agreements that I would like to go over, but not today. I will return in a few days' time…"

England made his way back to the door. Canada opened the door for him, and England hesitantly stepped over the threshold. As he stepped onto the porch, England turned around, facing Canada once more.

"I understand the colonists are probably still upset," he said, looking very pointedly at Canada as he spoke. "But, please understand that the riots will only make their situation worse. That is why I want it stopped. It's for their good, and yours."

Canada nodded, and slowly closed the door while England went on his way.

After England left, Canada returned to the parlor and picked up the tray with the tea pot. There was still a lot of tea left, he noticed, so he set the tray back down. He picked up England's empty cup, and set it on the tray beside the tea pot.

He paused for a moment to glance around the room and think. His gaze drifted from the tray, to the fire in the fireplace, to the door leading to the foyer.

Shaking his head, Canada sat down and picked up the empty tea cup, closing his hand around it. For several minutes, he sat there, staring at the fire, thinking over the conversation he'd just had.

_England sailed all the way across the Atlantic to tell me to stop the riots in Boston,_ Canada thought. He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. _He should know I can't do that… he wasted his time._

Unconsciously, Canada clenched his hand into a fist.

_I know he was trying to hide it, but he was angry, too. At the people. At me. And it's not even my fault…_

The tea cup shattered under the pressure from Canada's fist, causing him to jump slightly. He recovered quickly, however, and slowly and carefully picked up the pieces of shattered china. Holding the shards in one hand, Canada got up, thinking to throw them away, but stopped before even making it more than two paces away from his chair.

"Damn it, Alfred," he muttered. "Why couldn't you have won?"

Tears blurred Canada's vision, and he threw the teacup shards into the fireplace. He collapsed back down in his chair, resting his head in his hands.

_No, it's not America's fault, either,_ he told himself. _England's the one who killed him, and turned me into America's replacement._

Canada picked up the tea pot and strode over to the fireplace, deliberately spilling the tea onto the burning logs. Once he had spilled all of the tea out, Canada briefly considered destroying the tea pot as well, but thought better of it. He returned it to the tray.

_And it's also England who expects me to roll over and do everything he asks like a good, obedient colony. He wants those riots stopped because he's scared I'll start another revolution._

Canada froze. The idea had not occurred to him before; for one thing, he knew better than to think that he had any chance. After all, England could probably crush a second rebellion as easily as he had the first one. Canada shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought from his mind.

_Even if I were to try that, I'd need help anyway. But, I don't think I could talk the other nations into it. America's revolution failed; why should the other nations bankrupt themselves backing another failure?_

No matter how he looked at it, Canada could not see himself successfully rebelling against England. Either he would lose, and be right back where he started, or worse, he would end up like America.

There was, however, a third option. Canada could just continue living the way he was now, in quiet subservience to the British Empire. Maybe if he just waited a few years, the rebellious sentiment in places like Boston would quiet down, the economy would recover, and he could move on.

Canada cursed under his breath. None of those options appealed to him. He sat down in the chair, feeling a mounting sense of unease. Only part of it was due to the dilemma he faced, however.

During his stay in Boston, news of the riot had spread, and was starting to rouse controversy among the people.

"What should I do…?" he muttered.

**(-)**

As promised, England returned a few days later to discuss trade. He and Canada had a productive discussion, reached some agreements, but never broached the subject of the riot. However, that did not mean that it was forgotten; Canada could occasionally see hints of anger and fear in England's eyes, despite the empire's attempts to hide it.

The meeting ended and England left. He did not return; in fact, over the course of several weeks, Canada saw no sign of him anywhere in Boston.

_Did he return to London already?_ Canada wondered.

Ultimately, it made no difference where England had gone. Canada didn't care where he went; just so long as he was gone. And, if he really had left the colonies, so much the better.

Meanwhile, during those weeks after England had left, Canada had also grown increasingly restless. He was getting tired of Boston, so, one day in early March, he packed a handful of necessities and left America's Boston home, taking care to make sure everything was locked. Canada then mounted his horse and rode out of the city.

Unfortunately, he wasn't sure where to go. He didn't feel like returning to the mansion in Virginia, nor did he want to go to New York. There didn't really seem to be a need to go anywhere, in fact. Not in America's lands, anyway.

_I haven't been in my own colonies since America's death,_ Canada realized. _Maybe it's time I visited my own home for a while…_

It didn't take long for him to make up his mind. Canada rode north, headed for his original colonial home, in Quebec.

He knew that news of the riot had reached his own colonies. Though, for the most part, his own people had been apathetic at the news. Then again, the colonists of Canada had not lost a war for independence from the British crown. Maybe things would be more peaceful in his original homeland, then.

However, Canada's first home was Quebec, where France had found and adopted him. The colonists there were French, and undoubtedly resented British rule. Canada should not have been surprised at what he found when he set foot in his old homeland.

Anti-British sentiment in French Canada had grown during his absence. Things had not escalated to violence yet, partly because there was significantly less British military presence here. However, if England caught wind of what Canada's French colonists were saying, that was bound to change in a heartbeat.

_But if he puts troops here, wouldn't that make people even angrier?_

Canada shook his head. He kept going, trying to ignore the voices of his people, and focused on getting to his destination.

After days of traveling, Canada finally arrived at his house in Quebec City. He went inside, and immediately went about distracting himself with cleaning and tidying up the place, which had been untouched for nearly four years. He dusted everything, swept the floor of every room, rearranged things. Eventually, he came to the master bedroom, and went to the wardrobe to sort through his old clothes.

The first thing he saw upon opening the wardrobe doors was a bright red military uniform. He felt a pang in his chest, and took a step backward.

_My uniform,_ Canada thought. _I wore that when I fought with England against America in his revolution…_

Hesitantly, Canada reached for the uniform and took it out of the wardrobe. He stared intently at it for several minutes.

"_I'm not his brother anymore. I'm going to be my own country from now on… and I had hoped you would join me…_" America had said that years ago, just days before he and his men had been driven out of Quebec by Canada himself, with the help of Canadian militia and British regulars.

Canada flinched at the memory, and felt a surge of guilt and regret.

_Should I have sided with him? Would it have changed the outcome of the war?_

There would be no point in speculating about it now. The damage had already been done.

America's words kept repeating in Canada's mind. _Not his brother… not his brother… not his brother…_

It had only been four years. The wounds were not yet healed, but they were about to get torn wide open. There was too much bitter anti-British sentiment spreading through the colonies for Canada – or England – to ignore.

_I am not England's brother!_

"No, you're not..."

Canada turned the coat inside out and took it with him out of the room. Then, he went and found the satchel he'd brought with him, and shoved the coat into it.

It seemed his stay here wasn't going to be as long as he had originally hoped. He wasn't leaving immediately, though; there were still things he needed to do, but as soon as he finished, he would need to head south again. This time, his destination would be the Pennsylvania colony.

Canada went into the study and tossed the satchel aside. Taking a seat at the desk, he reached for the quill, inkwell and some paper, and began to write.

* * *

><p><strong>End-of-chapter notes: The Invasion of Quebec (late 1775) was a failed attempt by the Americans to take control of the British Province of Quebec. That's what is referenced by Canada driving America out of Quebec.<strong>

**The phrase 'turncoat' originates from the English Civil War. Defectors turned their coats inside out when they switched sides.**


	5. Chapter 5

Canada only stayed in Quebec for a week; just long enough to write a few letters and arrange a meeting with some acquaintances – officers that he'd met in the last two wars. He left them with some specific instructions, then returned to his house.

He handed his first letter to a courier, with instructions to deliver the letter to Samson Travis, of Boston. The second letter was sent to Alexander Hamilton in New York. The third and final letter would have to be sent across the Atlantic; it was addressed to Francis Bonnefoy.

With the letters having been sent, and the officers set to their task, Canada mounted his horse and left Quebec. He maintained a leisurely pace; there was no particular reason to hurry to his next destination, especially since there would be little he could do once he got there until he got a response to at least one of his letters.

Canada rode south, passing straight through New York, and going into Pennsylvania. Finally, he reached his destination: Philadelphia.

He went straight to the Pennsylvania State House and let himself inside. Ignoring whatever was going on in the Supreme Court Room, Canada headed into the Assembly Room, on the opposite side of the hall. Fortunately for him, the room was not being used at the moment. Canada slowly meandered through the room, examining his surroundings.

Everything was neatly arranged. Whoever had last been in here had been careful to make sure everything was put away properly when they were done. The room appeared to have been recently swept and dusted as well.

Canada gave up on distracting himself with everything in the room, and went looking for the object he had come here for. He went to the large desk at the far end of the room.

_This is the place where England made me sign that document giving me America's colonies,_ Canada thought. _It should still be in here, somewhere._

It proved easy to find; it was in the top drawer of the desk. Canada pulled it out, unrolled it, and stared at it. He noted the two signatures on the bottom, but his attention quickly turned to the actual document. As he remembered, he had only skimmed over it last time. Now, morbid curiosity overtook him and he reread it, slowly and carefully.

"Human personification status, as representing the entirety of the British Colonies of North America, is hereby granted to Matthew Williams. He shall possess all of the land and its people, and, as a consequence of that possession, shall be subject to every variance in the economic and social health of the colonies," Canada read aloud.

_Just as well I didn't read this. This isn't saying anything I wouldn't have already known when England told me I'd be standing for America._

He kept reading.

"He shall be sole possessor of the colonies, and shall be answerable and accountable to the British Empire for all events that transpire within his colonies. As the British colonies of North America, he and his people are entitled the same rights as their British brethren…"

Canada paused and put the paper down on the desk, letting out a mirthless laugh.

_I don't think America would have agreed about that one,_ he thought. He picked up the document again. _What else does England say here?_

"No other human personification may partition, even temporarily, any part of the colonies that are personified by Matthew Williams. He has no power to divide the colonies, or to give any portion to another personification, except it be done with the permission of the British Empire. He shall also be strictly forbidden from attempting to dissolve any of his colonies, nor shall he in any event be removed of his personification status. In addition, he and his colonies, as possessions of the British Empire, possess no right or ability to legally secede or revolt from the mother country."

Canada slammed the paper down on the table.

_Of course he would put that there…_

Canada was silent and motionless for several minutes. He didn't bother to pick the paper back up to finish reading it. Instead, he took to pacing in front of the desk, staring intently at the floor.

_It's just a piece of paper,_ he thought. _The paper isn't what makes me the personification… even if it was, this contract is no longer even worth the paper it's written on._

Canada reached for the document. He took a moment to look at his and England's signatures, then, gripping the opposite ends of the paper, tore it in half. Then, he stuffed the torn paper into his coat pocket.

He was about to leave the room, but balked on his way to the door. Returning to the desk, Canada sorted through the drawers, as if looking for something else. To his disappointment, he didn't find anything else of interest to him in that desk. Giving up on the desk, Canada headed for the door a second time, and this time he left the room.

Upon returning to his horse, Canada reached into the saddlebags and retrieved the military uniform, which was still inside out. He pulled the torn contract out of his pocket and put it inside the coat, folding the coat around the papers, and then returned the coat to the saddlebag. He then mounted his horse and rode over to America's Philadelphia home, where he planned to stay until he received word from his contacts.

A few days into the wait, Canada had received no letters from anyone. One afternoon, while he was reading a book in the parlor, Canada started to feel like something was wrong.

A dull headache had developed barely a day after settling into the Philadelphia house, and while Canada had managed to ignore it for a while, it not only did not go away after several days, but was slowly getting worse. The more he tried to focus on his book, the more he noticed the pain, and couldn't concentrate. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Canada put the book down and walked around, massaging his temples as he did so.

"What's going on, and where…?" he muttered.

He turned his attention inward, looking for the source of the headache. Unfortunately, he couldn't find anything in particular.

Just when he was about to give up and sit back down, Canada suddenly felt searing pain in his side. His hand flew to his side, and he let out a small gasp of pain. He lifted his shirt and inspected his side. A small cut had appeared, and some of the blood had stained the inside of his shirt.

"What?"

Canada looked inward again, and this time, the source of the problem was much more evident. There was a battle taking place. His French Canadian officer friends had run into a British patrol, and a fight had broken out.

"Damn it, I was hoping they wouldn't get caught," Canada said, and went to look for something to bandage the injury.

As soon as he bandaged the cut, Canada went through the house and began packing. However, this time he packed a lot more than just the bare essentials. His plans had been forcibly changed. Those officers were not supposed to have been found by the British.

_Depending on where he is, England's going to learn of this in a few months, or just a few days from now,_ Canada thought. _I can't risk staying here._

He knew he couldn't go anywhere in the colonies without England finding him eventually. There was only one possible destination he could think of.

France.

_I was going to need his help sooner or later,_ Canada thought. _But I guess I've got no choice at this point._

Canada tried to pack as little as possible, but a trip across the Atlantic still required more than just what he could fit into a pair of saddlebags. When he had packed what he could, he left the house, making sure everything was locked, and mounted his horse, and left Philadelphia at a gallop. The rest of his supplies could be purchased at a port town.

However, before he left for France, there was one thing he needed to do. Unfortunately, it would probably be difficult, as he had no idea where England was.

An idea occurred to Canada, however, and he made a stop at Fort West Point on his way to New York. After a brief conversation with the fort commander, Canada left a package with him, telling him it was a gift for Lord Arthur Kirkland, from his adopted brother Matthew. England was bound to receive the package eventually, likely at some point during Canada's stay in France.

Leaving West Point, Canada rode almost nonstop until he reached New York. When he arrived there, he wasted no time in going straight to the port, and getting on the first ship bound for France.

**(-)**

In the relatively quiet several days that passed after his meeting with Canada, England slowly started to wonder if his trip to the North American colonies had been an overreaction. During his stay in Boston, England never saw or heard anything that would give him cause for concern. When he left Boston, and traveled around the other colonies on other business, he never encountered any problems. Maybe things really were calming down in the colonies, and the riot merely was an isolated incident – an aberration – and there was nothing to worry about.

However, England's cautious optimism about the colonies was shattered about a month later. While conducting some business in the New Jersey colony, a courier had interrupted the meeting with a dispatch from Quebec, of all places.

England politely and apologetically cut his meeting short, and took the letter from the courier. Sitting down at the table, now alone – except for the courier – he read the letter.

"What?!" he exclaimed, standing up before even finishing the letter. "Why the hell are the French Canadian militia attacking British troops?"

"Sir, keep reading…" the courier said quietly.

England looked at the letter again. When he finished reading, he buried his face in his free hand.

"They were stealing arms and ammunition from British arsenals, and were caught by British troops," he said incredulously. He shook his head. "Why?!"

The courier shrugged. "As far as we know, their actions are totally unprovoked," he said. "We have no idea-"

England shoved the letter in his pocket.

"Whatever their reasons, they must be stopped immediately," England said. "Where are the survivors?"

The courier gave England an apologetic look, and shrugged. England cursed under his breath.

"Very well. Dismissed."

The courier left.

England stayed where he was for a few minutes longer, staring contemplatively at the wall.

"I need to go to Quebec," he muttered.

He sighed heavily, and buried his face in his hands.

_Canada, I thought you would have learned from America's mistake, _England thought._ Don't follow in his footsteps… Please… not you too…_


	6. Chapter 6

Canada couldn't decide if he regretted fleeing, or was happy for it. Early on in the voyage to France, he had fallen very ill, and the illness persisted for the rest of the journey. Much as Canada wanted to ascribe it to seasickness, he knew that wasn't the case.

Conditions in the colonies were rapidly spiraling out of control in his absence. The riot in Boston, combined with the skirmish between the Canadian militia and British regulars had pushed tensions to a breaking point. England, who had apparently stayed in the colonies, had declared martial law in both Quebec and Boston; meanwhile, in other colonies, colonists were fighting each other over whether to side with the rebels or the Crown.

On the one hand, he couldn't see or do anything about what was going on in the colonies. On the other hand, he was safe from England for the time being. He was also going to see France for the first time in nearly twenty years.

_I wonder how and when Papa learned what happened to America,_ Canada wondered idly as he lay on his bed belowdecks. _I remember he had been helping America during the war… was he _there_ when it happened?_

Canada turned over in the bed and pulled his blanket close. He would have to wait until he actually met with France in Paris to get answers to those questions.

That meeting finally came just weeks later, after a relatively smooth journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Upon landing on French soil, Canada immediately took a carriage to Paris. As he disembarked the carriage in front of the gates of France's house, France himself came outside to greet his former colony.

"Mathieu!" France exclaimed, running forward, embracing Canada and giving him a kiss on each cheek.

"Papa," Canada said, returning the greeting.

France looked Canada in the eye. His joyful expression faltered for a fraction of a second, as France briefly furrowed his brow. His smile quickly returned, but Canada did not miss France's moment of confusion.

"What is it, Papa?" Canada asked.

"I know I haven't seen you in twenty years," France replied. "But, you and I both know that, for people like us, twenty years is not very long. Yet, you seem different than I remember."

It was Canada's turn to look confused.

"How do you mean?" he asked.

"Your eyes are darker than I remember," France replied. His smile faded.

Canada said nothing, but patiently waited for France to continue.

"Oh, never mind that," France said, waving his hand dismissively. "Come inside. We'll talk there; it's much more comfortable."

Canada followed France into the mansion, and when they were inside, France led them into a beautiful and lavishly decorated salon. They sat at the table, and France sent for a tray of refreshments to be brought to them.

"How have you been?" France asked. "Are things going well?"

Canada blinked. He was sure France was being conversational, and had probably not intended to bring it up so quickly, but the problems in the colonies were actually the whole point of Canada's visit.

_Does he know that I own America's colonies now? Or does he think England took personification of them?_

"Um…" Canada began.

France had been about to take a sip of wine, but he set the glass down when he heard the tone of Canada's voice. He looked Canada in the eye again.

"Mathieu?" he asked.

"Um," Canada said again. "I'm not sure where to start…"

France frowned. "Why? What's going on?"

For a while, Canada was silent.

"There's some trouble in the colonies," he said at last.

"Oh?" France said. He paused, looking contemplatively down at his wine glass before continuing. "What kind of trouble? In which colony?"

Canada swallowed. _Well, I don't have to tell him everything right away…_

"England came to visit a while ago," he began. "But, during his stay, some fighting broke out. There was a skirmish between British redcoats and some of my French Canadian colonists. The British were saying that the colonists were smuggling weapons."

France's eyebrows went up slightly. "Is that all?" he asked.

Canada lowered his gaze, and slowly shook his head.

"England and his men are hunting down this supposed smuggling ring," he said. "But, at the same time, England has also declared martial law."

France's eyebrows went higher. "Where?" he asked. "Just in Quebec?"

"Well… no, actually…" Canada said quietly. "He did the same thing in Boston. There's been a lot of unrest there too."

France took a sip of wine, then set the glass down on the tray. He gave his former colony an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"No," Canada said. "That's… actually why I'm here. I wanted to ask for your help."

France froze, and he looked worriedly at Canada.

"My help?" France said. "_Cher_, there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry."

At that, Canada lifted his gaze sharply, looking directly at France, his eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

"This is between you and Angleterre," France replied. "And I hope, for your sake, that you resolve this problem quickly and peaceably."

"What? Papa, please, there must be something you can do for me-"

"I can't," France interrupted. "I'm in too much debt from the last war, and besides, I don't think I could talk my king into helping the colonies a second time."

Canada slumped back in the chair, lowering his gaze to the floor again. _That's what I should have known would happen… this whole trip was a waste of time._

France leaned forward in his chair. As he sat there, his mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

_It hasn't turned into full-scale war yet, but the poor boy may be headed that way,_ France thought. _And as much as I want to help him, I can't. But even if I could, would it make a difference? It certainly didn't for America… _

The realization struck France like a punch in the gut. No matter what he did, it wouldn't change a thing. If this were to turn into war, Canada was just going to end up like his brother.

_All I can do is try to steer him away from that path,_ France thought. _But, even that may not work. He'd probably be fighting the influence of his own people._

"Canada, listen to me," France said.

Canada lifted his gaze slightly.

"Try to reason things out with Angleterre," France said. "Don't let this turn into another war."

Canada's reaction made France's heart plummet. Instead of quietly nodding his understanding, like he used to when given a command, Canada sat up straight in the chair, and his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"America tried to avoid war at first as well," Canada said. "For ten years, his people kept protesting and appealing to Parliament…"

France frowned. _How does he know that? When did he learn so much of America's activities before the war? I thought Canada kept to himself…_

"That doesn't mean that another war is inevitable now," France said. "This doesn't have to end the way it did for America."

Canada winced and looked away. An uncomfortable silence followed, and neither nation spoke for a minute.

"It won't," Canada said softly.

France smiled nervously, but his smile quickly faded. "You'll resolve things peacefully, then?"

Canada inclined his head slightly, but said nothing. France nodded, breathing a small sigh of relief. Hopefully, he had just talked Canada out of a very reckless – and possibly fatal – decision.

"Good," France said. He stood up and gestured for Canada to follow him. "Come. I'll have some quarters prepared for you, and you can make yourself comfortable."

**(-)**

Unaware that Canada had left to go to France, England spent several frustrating weeks searching the colonies for him. First, England went to Quebec, thinking that Canada had been directly involved with the men that had been smuggling the weapons. Not only was Canada not there, but the French Canadian militia had mysteriously disappeared, and all efforts to find them had been fruitless.

England abandoned Quebec, leaving the search to his men. He returned to the Massachusetts Bay colony and conducted a search there. Once again, he found nothing. Frustrated, England continued to head south. As he was passing through the New York colony, he received a message from General Arnold, who had command of a small company of men at Fort West Point.

Apparently, Matthew Williams had left a gift for England.

"What is going on here?" England mused aloud as he read Arnold's letter. "Why couldn't Canada have given it to me himself? And where the hell _is_ he, anyway?"

It didn't make any sense, but perhaps when he got a look at this supposed gift, his questions would be answered. England headed for West Point.

When he arrived, he immediately went to meet General Arnold in his quarters. The two men exchanged greetings, then each took a seat at the desk. Arnold reached under the desk and retrieved a package, handing it to England.

"Your brother's gift for you," Arnold said.

"Thank you."

England inspected the box briefly before opening it. He untied the string holding the box shut and removed the lid, setting the string and the lid on the desk. Then he reached into the box and pulled out its contents.

The contents turned out to be just a bright red British uniform, neatly folded, but it had been turned inside out. When England unfolded it, he found two pieces of torn paper inside.

"Why…?" he said, staring in confusion at the uniform. _Why send me one of my own uniforms? And why is it inside out?_

He set the uniform aside and looked at the papers. It took less than a second for him to recognize what the paper was. His hands balled into fists, and he suddenly felt sick.

"Sir?" Arnold asked, leaning forward in his chair as if trying to get a look at the paper.

England stood up abruptly, turning slightly so that Arnold couldn't see his face while he fought back tears.

"It's nothing," England lied. He shoved the torn paper into his pocket, tucked the coat under his arm and headed for the door. "Thank you, General, for holding Matthew's gift for me."

England left, and closed the door behind him. He mounted his horse, stuffed the coat into the saddlebag and headed for the gates. When he was finally out of the fort, he only rode for a short distance before stopping again and promptly dismounting. Leading the horse on foot, England went off the road and headed into the forest, eventually stopping in a small clearing.

The small wooden cross that was America's grave stood a few feet away. England tied his horse's reins to a tree, then approached the grave. He came to a halt just barely three paces away from it, reached into his pocket and withdrew Canada's torn contract. Tears streamed down his face, and he looked up at the sky.

"Is it not enough that I lost America?" he cried. "Must I lose Canada as well?"

England knelt in front of the grave and lowered his gaze. He held out the two pieces of the contract, placing the pieces close to each other, so that they lined up where it was torn. As it turned out, the tear was straight down the middle, cutting both England and Canada's signatures in half.

After staring in silence at the contract for a long while, England dropped the papers, looking straight ahead at America's name carved into the horizontal piece of the cross.

"Does Canada truly think he can pick up where you left off?" England said to the grave. "To succeed where you failed?"

He hung his head and stared at the ground, taking a moment to wipe the tears from his face before he continued.

"No… that won't happen; there's no way these colonies could handle another war…" England sobbed. "I'll be standing here, five years from now, in front of both of you."

He buried his face in his hands, shaking and crying uncontrollably.

**(-)**

Canada spent several days adjusting to his quarters. Sometimes he would accompany France on business in the city, but for the most part, he kept to himself. One day, however, France took Canada with him to the French Royal Court.

France introduced Canada to King Louis XVI, as well as a number of the French nobles. However, after France went to have a discussion with his king, leaving Canada alone, Canada began to wander the court. Presently, Canada bumped into an elderly man with glasses.

"Oh! Excuse me, sir, I am so sorry," Canada said, taking a step backward and checking to see if the man was alright.

"No no, I'm fine," the man said. He locked gazes with Canada for a second, and his eyes went wide.

"What is it?" Canada asked.

"Alfred?!" the man whispered. He took a second to look Canada over, looking both shocked and overjoyed. "You're alive?!"

Canada shook his head sadly. _When will people stop mistaking me for him? He's been dead for four years now…_

"I'm not Alfred," he said. "I'm his brother, Matthew."

The man's smile vanished, and he looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," he said. "But you look exactly like him. For a moment there, I thought…"

He looked away and shook his head.

"Never mind," he said. "It's impossible; I should not have even entertained the thought… forgive me."

"It's all right," Canada said weakly. "This isn't the first time, um…"

There was an awkward pause.

_This man knew Alfred personally. He's got to be either John Adams or Benjamin Franklin, since they're the only two that came here._

"What is your name, sir?" Canada asked.

"Benjamin Franklin," the man said, extending his hand for a handshake. "Your brother was a good friend of mine."

Canada shook Franklin's hand, and Franklin began walking, leading Canada to another part of the room.

"What is your name, Matthew?" Franklin asked as they walked.

Canada frowned, confused. "Matthew Williams," he replied.

"No, that's not what I meant," Franklin said. "What is your real name?"

_My name as a personification?_ Canada wondered. _So he knows what Alfred and I are?_

"Canada…" he said, somewhat hesitantly.

Franklin nodded thoughtfully.

"Then who is America?" he asked.

"I thought you said-"

"I know," Franklin cut Canada off. He came to a halt nearby the wall, and Canada stopped right next to him.

"Alfred _was_ America," Franklin continued. "But if what France told me is true, then Alfred is dead. Yet his colonies still remain. So, who is standing for them?"

"Me," Canada said. "England gave me America's colonies right after the war ended."

Franklin nodded thoughtfully again.

"And now that things have calmed down, I suppose England sent you here on a business venture? Or is your mission more… diplomatic in nature?"

"England didn't send me here at all," Canada said. "He doesn't even know I'm here."

Franklin's eyebrows went up for only a fraction of a second. For some reason, he didn't seem all that surprised at Canada's behavior.

"I need France's help," Canada said pleadingly. "But, he said there was nothing he could do. You were an ambassador for America during the war; can you convince France to help me?"

Franklin's face fell. "What for?" he asked. "You haven't started another revolution, have you?"

"It hasn't turned into one yet," Canada said. "But there's unrest everywhere; it can't be very far off."

"Hmmm."

Franklin stroked his chin as if deep in thought.

"It will take time," Franklin said. "And John and I can't do it ourselves. We have to prove to the French crown that the colonies are worth backing in another war. That responsibility falls on your shoulders, I'm afraid."

Canada nodded.

**(-)**

England left West Point, but not before disposing of Canada's 'gift'. The uniform was useless, and if Canada cared so little about his contract as the personification of British North America that he was willing to destroy the document it was written on, then the paper was useless as well.

That was no gift. It was an insult, and as such, England had no intention of keeping the items regardless.

_So, he destroys his contract and sends it to me,_ England thought. _Maybe that's why I can't find him. He's hiding from me._

England mounted his horse and continued his search of the colonies, maintaining contact with British soldiers and Loyalist colonists whenever possible. He was determined to find Canada and those rebellious militia.

While he didn't find Canada, he did eventually find some of the elusive French Canadian rebels. However, they turned up in a rather unlikely location.

A few miles outside of Philadelphia, England ran into a small company of British troops, and they appeared to have arrested a man. England went over to investigate, identifying himself to the commander as Lord General Kirkland. The commander immediately explained everything.

"This man was found stealing arms from out of the arsenal," the commander said. "He's a French Canadian, and apparently doesn't speak English. I've got no idea why a French Canadian would be all the way down in New Jersey, especially to steal weapons of all things."

The Canadian man swore at England and the commander in French. England rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to the commander.

"He's part of a ring of French Canadian rebels," England said. "They're trying to stir up rebellion in the colonies. And, apparently, not just in Quebec…"

The commander gave England a quizzical look. "Why?"

England sighed and shrugged. _Canada has to have a personal hand in this. Why else would the French Canadians care about what's going on in the rest of the colonies?_

"It doesn't matter," England said. "But this man is clearly a traitor to the British crown. He'll be punished accordingly."

Without warning, several gunshots rang out, and the commander was hit in the chest. He cried out in pain, clutching his chest as he fell into the grass. A small handful of his men were also hit, including the two men that had been restraining the Canadian. The Canadian immediately took advantage of his opportunity, seizing the musket of one of the fallen soldiers and going on the attack.

Cursing under his breath, England picked up the commander's musket and went after the Canadian. He blocked the Canadian's attempt to bayonet him, then pressed an attack of his own. A scant two seconds later, the man was impaled on the end of the bayonet of England's borrowed musket.

England yanked the weapon out of the Canadian rebel's chest, and the man collapsed onto the ground. He did not get back up. Meanwhile, England and the remaining British soldiers frantically tried to find whoever had fired on them earlier.

A second round of gunfire rang out, and more British soldiers fell. This time, however, England saw where the gunfire had originated from. There were some woods nearby; the attackers were using the cover of the trees to catch the British in a surprise attack.

"They're hiding in the woods!" England yelled. He pointed. "Attack!"

England led the charge himself, and it did not take long to find their attackers. Unfortunately, the British soldiers were at a huge disadvantage, but England was no longer in a position to care. He charged, impaling any rebel unfortunate enough to be near him.

During the fighting, a stray shot struck England in the left arm. Swearing colorfully, but determined to keep fighting, England forced himself to maintain his grip on the musket and ignore the injury as best he could. However, the fight did not last for much longer after that.

The rebels quickly scattered and fled in all directions. England and his men tried to pursue, but the rebels outran them, eventually disappearing into the underbrush.

"Damn it," England gasped, finally dropping the musket and tending to his injured arm. He tore off the end of his sleeve, tying it around the wound.

He and the men went back to the road, tending to the wounded. England knelt by the commander, quickly realizing the man was dead. England swore again.

"Get back to Philadelphia," England commanded the men. "I will send for reinforcements."

_And so begins yet another revolution… how long will it last, until I have to stand before Canada's grave as well?_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The General Arnold that's at West Point... yes, it's <em>that<em> one.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Thank you guys for bearing with me. I now have a lot more room in my schedule, so hopefully updates should speed up at least a little bit...(also, the fighting should begin in earnest by the next chapter.)**

**Eh, and I've been neglecting to put a disclaimer here, but I think we know: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

* * *

><p>It was a long and infuriating wait for the reinforcements at Philadelphia. Sending the survivors of the skirmish to be treated by local doctors, England then locked himself in the Pennsylvania State House and paced irritably back and forth in the hall. That exercise did not last for long, however, and England retreated into the Assembly Room and sat down at one of the tables, staring at the floor.<p>

The reinforcements arrived that night. England was about to turn in for the night, and when he had left the State House, on his way to America's old house, he saw his troops marching in his direction.

"About bloody time," England muttered. He went over to join his men.

The commander noticed England's approach, and called a halt. He and England exchanged greetings, and then the commander dismissed his men. While the soldiers turned in for the night, England and the commander kept walking.

"The rebels fled as soon as we went into the forest to engage them," England said.

The commander looked disgusted. "Cowards," he said. "They knew they didn't stand a chance in a real fight. Where are they now?"

"I don't know," England replied. "It's only been a few hours, but who knows how far they've managed to flee in that time…"

"How are we supposed to catch them then?"

"Spies. Their movements shouldn't be hard to track, especially if they plan to keep stealing from British arsenals."

"They'll be expecting to be followed, and they know there are plenty of colonists still loyal to the Crown, who would happily turn them in if given the chance," the commander protested. "Wouldn't the rebels be doing everything they could to hide their movements?"

"They can try, but we won't lose them easily," England countered. "I've increased military presence here, and I will offer rewards to any colonists who aid us in the capture of these rebels. They _will_ be caught."

"Very well. But you said they fled. I doubt they'll be staying in Philadelphia."

England nodded. "I don't anticipate staying here for long either. However, we wait on the word of my spies."

**(-)**

Canada returned to the French court the next day. It did not take long for him to locate Benjamin Franklin, and the two enjoyed a brief and pleasant conversation for a while. Several minutes into their conversation, another man from the court approached them, and Franklin waved at the man, prompting Canada to turn around to see who it was.

He didn't recognize the individual, but he had a guess as to who he was. His guess turned out to be correct, as Franklin called the man by name.

"Good day, Mr. Adams," Franklin said.

"Doctor Franklin," John Adams responded cordially. He glanced over at Canada.

Adams' eyes briefly flashed with the same surprise and joy that Franklin had shown yesterday when seeing Canada for the first time. Canada sighed, steeling himself to be mistaken for America yet again.

Adams did not speak, but he looked questioningly at Franklin, who gave Adams a subtle – almost imperceptible – shake of the head. Adams then returned his attention to Canada.

"What is your name, sir?" Adams asked.

"Matthew Williams," Canada replied.

"Alfred's brother," Franklin added. "He's here on a diplomatic mission to France."

Adams nodded, though his eyebrows went up slightly. "I assume Sir Kirkland is… elsewhere at the moment? Dealing with Mr. Bonnefoy, perhaps…"

Canada shook his head. "I came here alone," he said.

"Really?" Adams looked taken aback. "I'm surprised Sir Kirkland would let you conduct official business overseas on your own; I thought-"

Canada shook his head again. "He doesn't know I'm here," he said.

Adams stared at Canada in stunned silence for several seconds.

"That's a dangerous move, Mr. Williams," Adams said once he regained his composure. "Do you know what Sir Kirkland is going to do to you when he finds out?"

"He was going to punish me anyway," Canada said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"What for?"

"There is rebellion in the colonies… again. I'll bet Arthur's already got the military together, trying to stamp out the rebellion right now."

Adams ran a hand through his hair. "Dear God," he muttered.

There was a moment's silence before Adams continued.

"You're here to petition France for help?" he asked. "I'm sorry, but I just don't know if that's possible."

Canada's face fell. _This man was one of Alfred's outspoken supporters of independence, and he managed to talk France into helping the American cause, but now he sounds so despondent, like we've been defeated already… _

He cast a furtive glance over at Franklin.

_France sounded much like Adams does now as well… Does Franklin believe the same? _

"Remember what I told you earlier, Matthew," Franklin said. "It will be up to you and the rebels to convince the French. Prove to them that the colonies will not fail a second time."

Adams rounded on Franklin.

"You're all but asking him to defeat England singlehanded!" he protested.

Franklin shook his head. "No, I am not," he said. "I know we can't defeat the British on our own."

"But unless I can get France to help me, I will be on my own!" Canada said, the tone of his voice edging on panic.

"No, you won't," Franklin said calmly. "You've got something Alfred never had; the resources of every British colony on the North American continent."

Canada was about to protest, but stopped himself. Franklin had a point. Perhaps, because he had possession of _all_ of the colonies, there were things he could do that America couldn't. He just needed to be creative and resourceful with what he had.

_Will it really mean that I'd stand a chance, though?_ Canada thought.

It was little consolation, but it was better than none at all, he supposed.

"What should I do?" Canada asked. "Return to the colonies and fight while you two talk to France?"

Franklin nodded. "That would be the most prudent course of action for the moment."

Adams sighed and folded his arms, still looking reluctant.

"Be _careful_," he said. "Don't try to confront Arthur directly."

"I know. And thank you."

With that, Canada turned and left. Adams and Franklin exchanged looks.

"Is he planning on leaving immediately?" Adams asked incredulously.

"Probably not," Franklin said. "However, that boy _is_ America's brother, Canada. Formerly a French colony, before the Seven Years' War. He hasn't seen France in decades, so I imagine he wants to spend a little more time with his former guardian before heading off to war with his current one."

Both men fell silent for a while. Eventually, Franklin broke the silence, and changed the subject.

"America said that Canada was his brother, but I didn't realize they were identical twins," he observed.

Adams looked quizzically at his colleague. "Why is that important?"

Franklin shrugged. "It isn't, really," he said. "I was just making an observation. But, when we saw him, we both thought he was America, even though we should have known better. It makes me wonder if anyone else…"

"Has mistaken him for Alfred? No. There is no one else left," Adams said bitterly. He abruptly left, headed in the same direction Canada had gone.

**(-)**

As Franklin had guessed, Canada remained in France for several more weeks before returning to the colonies. However, just days before Canada was about to leave, France called his former colony into a private meeting. The two met at France's house, sitting down in the parlor for the meeting.

Canada had just barely sat down when the door opened again, and in walked a young man in military attire. Canada abruptly stood up, looking quizzically back and forth between France and the new arrival.

"Mathieu, this is the Marquis de La Fayette," France said. "He served as a general for the American rebels."

"Bonjour, Marquis_,_" Canada greeted the young general. "My name is Matthew Williams."

Canada and Lafayette exchanged their greetings, but when they were done, Canada was still confused. He looked to France again.

"He has agreed to serve the colonies again," France said.

Canada's eyes went wide for a moment. He quickly returned to a neutral expression, though he fought the smile that tugged at his lips. Maybe France was going to help after all.

"I –um, thank you, Marquis," Canada said. "I would be honored…"

"It is my honor as well, Monsieur Williams," Lafayette said. "I have heard many good things about you from Monsieur Bonnefoy."

Canada nodded, stealing a glance over at France out of the corner of his eye. _I wonder what changed his mind?_

Now that introductions were out of the way, the three men spent some time in pleasant conversation. France had some wine brought in while they talked. Canada relaxed in his chair and allowed France and Lafayette do most of the talking. During the entire conversation, Canada's mind kept wandering to other things, and he found it difficult to focus and participate in the conversation.

_If Lafayette was a general for the Continental Army during the war, then he probably met America at least once,_ Canada thought.

Even if Lafayette knew France well, that didn't necessarily mean that he knew what America was. For all Canada knew, Lafayette might have already forgotten Alfred's name.

_That's not important, though,_ Canada reminded himself. _I just hope his skills as a general help me survive this war…_

Canada set his wine glass down. He faked a smile in reaction to a comment France made, barely paying any attention to what was actually being said.

_Would England really kill me, if it came to that? There'd be no one left to take the colonies if he did…_

Canada shook his head. _No, England could probably take them himself. They are technically _his_ colonies._

"Mathieu?" France said, jolting Canada out of his reverie.

Canada looked at France. "What?"

"You're shaking your head. You don't agree?"

_Agree with what?_

"Um," Canada said awkwardly. "I-uh, well…"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Taking a sip of wine to stall for time, Canada tried to think quickly.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't quite catch what you said earlier."

France did not respond right away, but he regarded Canada with a thoughtful expression. Canada tried to force himself to keep a neutral expression, and he hoped that whatever he missed was unimportant.

"Ah, I thought you looked a little distracted," France said. He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I was just commenting on one of the lovely young ladies in the court…"

_Good, it's not important._ Canada visibly relaxed. He took another sip of wine, and tried harder to focus on the conversation this time. If his concentration lapsed again, there was a possibility he would miss something that was actually important.

Fortunately, the conversation remained on light and inane topics until Lafayette finally left. As soon as Lafayette was gone, however, France adopted a much more somber expression, and, after downing the last of his wine, began to speak.

"_Mon cher,_ you should know something," he said.

Canada frowned. "What?" he asked.

"My king was reluctant to help America at first," France began. "He did not believe the colonists stood a chance. England was – and still is – the world's most powerful empire. He has a well-trained, well-disciplined military, the largest navy, and owns most of North America. A successful rebellion from the empire looked impossible; America was outmatched in every conceivable way."

"What changed his mind?" Canada asked.

France heaved a sigh. "I still sent aid to America in secret. However, after the Battle of Saratoga in 1777, my king was finally convinced of America's commitment to his independence, and believed that victory was possible. He finally approved financial and military assistance, I could finally declare open alliance with America."

France stopped and lowered his gaze.

"But, for all our effort, Louis' initial prediction was eventually proven right. America lost the war. Now, between my debt and the colonies' legacy of defeat, I know I will never be able to talk him into aiding the colonies again."

"But you're giving me Lafayette-" Canada objected.

France shook his head. "That's as much as I can do," he said. "And, even that much I did without my boss' knowledge."

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"The first time I asked, you said there was nothing you could do. You told me to settle things peacefully with England…" Canada said.

"Yes, but I was recently informed of the state of affairs in the colonies," France said, his countenance darkening further. "I don't know how or why you've let it come so far, but it sounds like war is inevitable. You will need Lafayette's talents before long."

_Franklin must've told him,_ Canada thought.

France looked his former colony in the eye. Canada froze, returning the gaze.

"What?" Canada asked.

"Regardless of the outcome of the war, you must come back alive," France said gravely. "I'm your big brother – you do not have my permission to die."

Canada nodded, despite the forlorn expression on his face. With that, he stood up and headed for the door. France accompanied him into the foyer, where Canada picked up his coat and put it back on.

The door was open, but Canada hesitated to leave. He turned around and put his arms around France, and France returned the embrace.

"Thank you, France," Canada said.

He let go of France, and this time, he actually stepped over the threshold and onto the porch. Seconds later, as Canada was making his way to the street, France closed the door.

_France is wrong; war isn't inevitable – it's already started. Lafayette and I need to leave immediately._

* * *

><p><strong>Ending notes: The Treaty of Amity (the treaty where France declared an alliance with the United States) was signed in February 1778, several months after the Battle of Saratoga (October 1777). However, France had already been sending aid in secret since 1776.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn't sickness that wracked Canada's body on the return journey from France, though he might have preferred that over what he now experienced. Civil war had broken out in the colonies, and the effects were written all over Canada's body, in the form of wounds and bruises that kept appearing seemingly out of nowhere. He knew England and his troops were involved, but for the most part, the colonists weren't fighting the British.

They were fighting each other.

The same rebellious spirit that had been rampant in America's colonies during the last war had finally been reignited. Unfortunately, this had only resulted in rebel colonists clashing with other colonists still loyal to the king.

_This is not what I wanted,_ Canada thought as he wrapped bandaging around his most recent wound, which had appeared on his left leg. _We're supposed to be rebelling from the British Empire, not tearing ourselves apart!_

Canada finished binding the wound, and he leaned back against the wall of his quarters belowdecks. Taking a deep breath, he tried to force himself to calm down.

_Didn't America also have this problem? His people were divided between Patriots and Loyalists… but he managed…_

Canada flinched when a painful reminder struck him in the middle of his thought.

_Up until the Battle of West Point, anyway,_ he realized.

"What happened?" Canada asked aloud, even though there was no one else in the room to answer. "The battle was a failed attempt to recapture West Point… but how did he lose that fort in the first place?"

Canada searched his memory. Surely at some point he'd heard from someone about what had happened before that fateful battle.

It had been a strategic fort on the Hudson River, and had been held by the Americans for most of the war, until it fell to a British surprise attack. The fort was surrendered almost immediately, as Canada recalled from what people had told him.

_I think Samuel Adams said that the fort's commander, Benedict Arnold, defected to the British side as well,_ Canada thought.

Another realization suddenly occurred to him, and it made him feel sick. General Arnold was still in command of West Point – England had apparently given the post to him after the war ended – and it was General Arnold that Canada had left his 'gift' with before leaving for France.

_I didn't even realize who that was when I left the package with him. If I had known, I would not have left it with that traitor…_

Then again, it was unlikely that Arnold had seen the contents of the package. The man had no idea who Matthew Williams was, other than what Canada had told him: the brother of Sir Arthur Kirkland, and Arnold did at least know Sir Kirkland to be a British general. Arnold should have enough respect for his superior officer to ensure that Sir Kirkland received his brother's gift.

In the end, Canada knew it made little difference. Pushing those thoughts aside, he lay down on his bed, attempting to go to sleep.

**(-)**

Canada had originally planned to go to Boston, but as the ship neared the harbor, it turned out that the Boston Harbor was closed. When they were still several miles offshore, Canada's ship was intercepted by a British frigate which had been blockading the harbor. The captain of Canada's ship was forced to change course, so instead of going to Boston, Canada went to New York. After several days' delay from changing course, Canada finally set foot in his colonies after being away for nearly a year.

He stepped off the ship and onto the dock in New York Harbor on a frigid January morning. Walking quickly in an attempt to keep himself warm, Canada left the harbor and headed directly to America's old house. He let himself inside, went straight to the bedroom, dropped his belongings onto the floor, and collapsed on the bed, where he slept for several hours.

When Canada awoke, he still did not bother to unpack his belongings. They remained forgotten on the bedroom floor while Canada ventured into the kitchen to find something to make for dinner. He cooked a small meal for himself, then sat down in the dining room to eat. When he finished eating, he returned to the bedroom.

Finally, he began to unpack. Canada unpacked his changes of clothes, taking them over to the wardrobe and dresser to put them away.

When he opened the wardrobe doors, however, he noticed it was still full of America's clothes. Heaving a sigh, Canada began taking America's clothes out of the wardrobe. As he did this, he saw what looked like a long piece of metal had been hidden behind the clothes. Out of curiosity, Canada reached for it, and pulled it out to look at it.

It turned out to be a rifle. For several minutes, Canada just stood there, as if unsure of what to do with the weapon. It was not loaded, but a second look in the wardrobe revealed ammunition and a horn of gunpowder in one of the drawers.

_America kept a gun hidden in his wardrobe,_ he thought. _I wonder if he's got more weapons hidden in his other houses…_

Setting the gun aside, Canada returned to his original task. He put his clothes in the wardrobe alongside America's old clothes, then looked at the pile of America's clothes that still lay on the floor. With Canada's clothes in it, the wardrobe was now full; the rest of America's clothes would have to be put elsewhere.

_I don't want to throw them away… They're still in decent condition, and they look like they'd fit me…_

Canada settled for folding the clothes as neatly as he could and leaving them on top of the dresser. With that done, Canada then decided to turn in for the night.

Exhausted though he was, Canada still did not get adequate sleep that night. While his still-healing wounds did not bother him, he nevertheless slept lightly, and kept waking up at the slightest noise. Finally, when the first rays of sunlight started to show through the window, Canada gave up, and got out of bed.

While he got dressed, Canada glanced over at the rifle, which he had left leaning against the wall, beside the dresser.

_I'll probably be needing that before long,_ he thought.

Canada hurriedly pulled his coat on and went over to the rifle. He picked it up, then went to retrieve the ammunition and gunpowder from the wardrobe drawer, putting them into his satchel. He then carried the satchel and gun with him as he went outside into the snow.

As he was on his way to the stable to find a horse, Canada mentally scanned the colonies for any places that seemed likely to have open conflict. Tension was still high in Boston, but the city was closed off, still under martial law. The surrounding areas remained open, although there were plenty of angry colonists there, too. Virginia, Georgia and the Carolinas were fairly quiet, although that was probably because of the lack of British military presence there.

And yet, the British troops weren't Canada's main concern. His own people were.

_I need to find my militias, and start putting together a proper army. Then I need to contact Lafayette…_

Immediately after finding a horse, Canada mounted up and rode out of New York, and went looking for those French Canadian militiamen. They probably had quite the stockpile of stolen weapons by now, but those weapons would need to be distributed quickly if Canada was going to stand a chance in this war.

His search stretched over the course of several days. One day, while on his way through the Pennsylvania colony, Canada stopped in a small town to rest. He took his horse to the stable, where it could rest, then Canada headed to the tavern.

He took the opportunity to make conversation with some of the people in the tavern, making discreet inquiries about rebel and British military activities in the area. Unfortunately, he got very little in the way of useful information. Apparently, there had been a skirmish outside Philadelphia several months ago, but no one had seen or heard from the rebels since.

_They're probably headed to a different colony,_ Canada thought. _They may even have reached their destination already. But where did they go…?_

There was no way of knowing that for certain until Canada heard or saw news about another skirmish. He had left instructions with the militia commander to contact 'Matthew Williams' if necessary, but that was before Canada had suddenly decided to go to France. At this point, however, that made little difference. Canada would eventually find the militia on his own.

Canada left the tavern, returning to the stable to find his horse. On his way to the stable, he ran into a small child.

The child appeared to be a boy of barely eight years. He ran into the street right in front of Canada, and Canada had to stop abruptly to avoid the boy. The boy stopped as well and looked up at Canada. Neither one spoke for several seconds.

The boy narrowed his eyes at Canada, as if glaring accusingly at him. Then, he ran off without uttering a single word.

"Wait!" Canada called, staring in confusion after the boy.

The boy ignored him, but disappeared around the corner of a building.

_What was that about?_

**(-)**

A few more days into his search, Canada made another stop, this time in Virginia. He had been riding for several hours, and he stopped on the side of the road to take a short break. While he was stopped, he noticed a company of British soldiers headed in his direction.

Canada cut his break short. He quickly mounted his horse, and made ready to leave.

"You there!" the commander called out to him.

Canada froze. For a split second, he thought of ignoring the commander and fleeing, but he knew that would only cause trouble. Better to humor these soldiers; that way, there was still a possibility of getting out of this without incident.

"Yes?" Canada said.

The commander brought his men to a halt roughly twenty paces away from Canada and his horse. Leaving his men where they were, the commander then approached Canada. He gestured for Canada to dismount.

Canada dismounted, though he tried to hide his reluctance in doing so. He gave the British commander a quizzical look. The commander, on the other hand, was eyeing the rifle Canada had with him.

"What is your name, sir?" the commander asked.

"Matthew Williams," Canada replied.

"Mr. Williams," the commander said. "Do you know anything of the rebel militia that have been going through this area lately?"

_They are in this area? Good, I might be able to find them soon._

Canada shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he lied. "But I'm afraid I haven't seen or heard anything about them. All I know is that they've been going through the colonies, smuggling weapons and the like."

"Indeed, they have been smuggling weapons," the commander said, nodding his head, but not sounding like he believed Canada's words. "Including those like the kind you've got on you. Where'd you get that rifle, Mr. Williams?"

Canada fought to keep his face neutral, and his voice calm.

"This was my brother's," he said.

The commander's eyebrows went up. "Your brother gave it to you?" he asked. "And where did _he_ get the rifle? He's not affiliated with the rebels, is he?"

Canada's reply was cut off by the sound of gunfire. The commander spun around just as some of the British soldiers cried out in pain and fell. The rest of the soldiers immediately readied their muskets, and began looking around for the source of the gunshots. It didn't take long for them to find their attackers; the rebel militia had appeared further down the road from them.

The commander hurriedly returned to his men and began shouting orders, completely ignoring Canada. Canada seized his opportunity and mounted his horse, then rode in a wide circle around the fray, joining the rebels at the rear of their ranks.

"There you are," a vaguely familiar voice called out.

Canada glanced all around him, looking for the man who had just spoken. When he finally found him, he did a double take, having not recognized him immediately.

Alexander Hamilton approached Canada and saluted.

"I've been looking for you for months," Hamilton said. He glanced over at the battle taking place ahead of them. "But that discussion can wait. We could use your help."

Canada nodded and hurriedly dismounted. He loaded the rifle as he headed to the front line, and took aim at the British soldiers. Hamilton had a rifle of his own, and he also took aim.

"If there's anything I learned while I served with Washington in the last war," Hamilton said before firing. "It's that we don't stand a chance in a proper, 'fair', fight."

"What does that mean?" Canada asked.

Hamilton fired, striking one of the British officers in the chest. "Do what is necessary to win. Aim for their officers; it sows confusion and damages their morale."

Canada nodded, and readjusted his aim. With his gun now trained on the commander, he pulled the trigger. The commander was hit in the shoulder, and he fell. Canada was about to reload, but Hamilton grabbed his arm.

The British soldiers were charging towards the militia, bayonets mounted on their muskets.

"Pull back!" Hamilton yelled.

He and the men promptly fled, leaving Canada with little choice but to follow. Canada jumped back into the saddle and rode alongside the men while they fled on foot. Fortunately, the militia proved faster on their feet than the British soldiers, and the British gave up trying to catch them after only a few minutes.

Hamilton waited a while after the British stopped pursuing to allow the men to halt. When they did, many of them sat down in the grass to rest and relax for a few minutes, knowing that they would be on the move again very shortly. Canada dismounted and sat beside Hamilton.

"I learned of a group of French Canadian rebels that were causing problems for the British," Hamilton said. "In the last few months, militias from other colonies have slowly been forming up again. This hasn't happened in five years."

"And…?" Canada said, pretending to not know what Hamilton was hinting at.

"I knew the rebellion wasn't over," Hamilton said.

Canada gave a halfhearted smile.

"You know that we're at an enormous disadvantage?" he asked.

Hamilton sighed. "Yes," he admitted. "It may take a miracle of divine providence to win this war."

"But you still think it can be done?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Hamilton said finally.

* * *

><p><strong>Ending notes: Not every American colonist living in the American Revolution wanted independence. In fact, after the war ended, roughly one twentieth of the people actually left the country, going to the British colonies in Canada just so they could stay loyal to the Crown.<strong>

**Now, in this story, being an alternate history, there's rebellion in the Canadian colonies as well. This means that the Loyalists have even fewer options now...**


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